Breathing in the Bun Shop

This evening I tell him, “Well. moving and thinking and writing have been happening. My brain is exploding. It feels like time to penetrate myself and then venture to the bun shop.”

“Both can happen simultaneously,” He responds

The bun shop is a physical destination, but also, I remember:

“I am the bun shop.”

“See what your fingers and clit think about that.” He says.

Intrigued yet?

I told you about the bun shop, right? It’s a kind of embodied mind palace, if I had to name it something.

The bun shop houses all I am and lets me express it.

Okay. Enough wordplay. A little too heady for where I’m going.

Snuggle in and let’s get into my body.

Some context for this story: I’ve had quite my share of experience opening my heart, and body, and mind to someone and being dropped shortly after. Dismissed. Called too much. Ghosted. Fucked over and over again without any Nourishment. Trauma after trauma. It started to become the only narrative written in my body. That happens with repeated abuse. And then you start to do it to yourself, in the subtlest ways. Like not letting yourself pay attention to anything other than avoidance of what hurt before and what you anticipate happening again.

It’s as simple as this: my body believed, “when I open, it’s dangerous, so I must remain on high alert.”

My physical experience of resistance to noticing pleasure’s presence is an expression of the mental grooves my energy runs through. The habitual ones.

But I can change that with the magick of my attention. Magick, according to Aleister Crowley, is the art and science of having change happen at will.

I noticed tonight quite vividly that I was paying attention to and continuously bracing against my anticipation of pain. Kind of a mind fuck. I mean the goal if there is one is to fuck my mind open so I guess, Mission accomplished. But not complete, I hear His voice echoing. “However the goal is to never be complete. Always tension, always release.”